Into the Storm (28 page)

“At ease, Lieutenant,” the commander said. “Take a seat.”

Madigan took one of the simple chairs set before the table where Bradher was working. The table was covered with files, reports, and communications both to and from the war office in Caspia. Schafer leaned against another similarly burdened table nearby, his arms crossed and a smug expression on his face. This was almost certainly his doing.

Bradher’s assistant handed him a sheaf of papers, which he took with a grim expression and set before him. “Lieutenant Madigan, I’ve been reading about you. I was hoping you could explain your actions as commanding officer of the Sixth Platoon of the 47th Storm Knights in the invasion of Sul. Captain Schafer here asserts that you disobeyed his orders in moving your platoon into the city.”

When Madigan gave no reply, Bradher continued, “Information provided by Major Laddermore indicates you made that decision on your own, knowing full well it was not within your assignment. In fact, Lieutenant, it would appear you abandoned your assigned post and took your platoon behind enemy lines on a wild goose chase. Is this correct?”

“Yes, sir,” Madigan answered. Laddermore’s report had been neutral and completely truthful; in fact, this was exactly why he had sent her a communication taking all responsibility for his actions. Schafer’s report, however, had savaged him. He could only imagine the captain would be pushing for a court-martial as soon as it could be arranged. “I do not dispute those facts.”

“I would expect such overenthusiastic foolishness from a green officer, not a seasoned veteran.” Bradher was a stern leader with no patience for the frivolous. He removed his glasses and rubbed his eyes. There wasn’t a man in the Storm Division who wasn’t mentally exhausted at this point of the campaign. “During this unauthorized excursion you lost twenty percent of your men, including one of your NCOs.”

“Sergeant Wilkins is missing in action.”

The commander shook his head. “I’m sorry, Lieutenant, but I’m afraid Sergeant Wilkins was spotted during the last offensive, upon a Protectorate wrack. He’s gone.”

“Wracked?” Madigan’s composure broke for the first time as he thought of the loyal soldier strung up on one of the horrific Protectorate torture devices. It was a terrible way to die. He looked down.

“I am sorry.” Bradher leafed through his notes. “When there was a detonation of an unknown incendiary device beneath First Platoon’s position, killing Lieutenant Griggs and forty of her soldiers, your platoon was nowhere to be found.”

“No, sir. I mean, the device isn’t unknown . . . You have my report.”

Schafer made a contemptuous snort but said nothing.
Biding his time,
thought Madigan.
He’s in his element now.

“Yes, I do.
And
I have the official report that says Groller Culpin has been dead for twelve years. Forgive me if the word of the CRS carries a little more weight than that of an exhausted soldier in a long offensive. They are studying the scene now to ascertain the nature of this device so we can be prepared for it in the future. Don’t worry, Lieutenant, we won’t be caught unawares again.”

Madigan nodded. He’d heard the rumors. Word of his assertion had spread, and right behind it was the speculation that he’d never even thought he saw Culpin, that the whole scenario was a fabrication, an attempted justification for his own lack of judgment.

Bradher leaned back in his chair. “Lord Commander Stryker is preparing for one last offensive. This campaign has been far more difficult than expected. We’ve flooded this city with tens of thousands of troops and drained our coffers, and yet these Menites dig in like ticks, and after months, when we’re finally within striking distance of their great temple, you pull this? What were you thinking?”

“You have my report,” Madigan stated flatly.

“I must admit, I am astounded. I’d heard of your exploits, Lieutenant Madigan; you’re an infamous man. When I found out Major Laddermore had given you this assignment, I for one expected your platoon to be a joke. We have over nine thousand Storm Knights in this division now, and you got the worst of the worst among them. Yet somehow you inspired a group of borderline convicts and drunkards to fight like the king’s personal guard.” The commander sighed. “Don’t you have anything to say in your defense?”

“You have my report,” he said again.

“You realize the potential penalty for disobeying a direct order during wartime includes hanging?”

“I do.”

Bradher chuckled. “I’d heard you were a hard one, but I had no idea. I don’t want to court-martial someone knighted by a king, Lieutenant. Give me something to work with.”

Madigan pressed his lips in a line, then said, “Here is my defense:
Groller Culpin is alive.
I saw him with my own eyes. Do not underestimate this man, Commander. He’d see the kingdom burn, and he’s smart enough to pull it off. Some may say I’ve brought back a villain from Cygnar’s past in an attempt to excuse my own actions.” He glared at Schafer. “They would be incorrect. I accept my mistakes, sir. Culpin may have been present, but I am the one who gave the order to burn the Hartcliff manor during the coup. Not Culpin. Me.”

“That’s not why we’re here, Lieutenant.”

“I believe it is. Because I watched that madman dance with joy while his flames consumed innocent children. I know him. I understand him. The army needs to understand him as well, or the entire nation will pay the price. Sir.”

Schafer stood up. “Enough of your delusions!” he snapped. “It was my First Platoon that was killed by that Menite bomb, yet you still seek to blame it on a ghost.”

“Culpin doesn’t give a damn about the Protectorate cause, and he’d rather spit in Menoth’s eye than bend his knee. He cares about
revenge
. In Culpin’s mind, King Leto ruined his life, and I promise you he’s kept that thought in mind for twelve long years.”

“Culpin? Or
you,
Madigan?” Schafer said, growing red-faced. “Someone like you should never have been given the honor of a Stormblade command. You are a disgrace to the very concept of knighthood! You think Vinter’s folly in knighting you makes you special? You think it makes you one of us? You are a fraud and a villain, and you make others pay with their lives just to serve your vanity.”

Of course, he would never be seen as one of “Leto’s Boys
.
” He noted that Bradher watched the exchange with steepled fingers, clearly weighing every word. He had one last chance to make him pay attention to this very real threat.

“Then allow me to demonstrate my conviction,” Madigan said coldly. “Commander Bradher, I hereby give up my title and lands and forsake the commission bestowed upon me by King Vinter Raelthorne.”

“What?!” Schafer hadn’t expected that, he saw.
Good.

Bradher sat up sharply. frowning. “Are you sure you want to do that, Lieutenant? Your status as a knight does offer some protections, even in circumstances like this.”

“If it gets the army to realize how much danger we are in, so be it. Now either send me to the gallows or let me get back to work, because I’m tired of this charade.”

Clearly the commander hadn’t been expecting this turn of events. He pondered it for a minute, deep in thought, while Schafer gaped from the side. Finally he said, “I am moved by your display, Lieutenant. You have my word that this Culpin matter will not be dropped. I will speak with Lord Commander Stryker about the situation myself.”

Madigan leaned forward in a small bow. “Thank you, sir.”

“Since we are still embroiled in this conflict I will not yet convene a formal hearing on the inciting actions. However, in a time of war, insubordination is unforgivable and demands severe punishment. Lieutenant, you are relieved of your command and your rank. You will be returned to Caspia and placed in custody pending a hearing, including Lord Commander Stryker’s personal review of this incident. Since he is rather preoccupied with ending this war, that may take some time. I can promise that at a
minimum
you personally will be discharged.”

His entire life had been devoted to the Cygnaran Army. This was the worst shame imaginable, but he remained stoic. “What of my men?”

“Since you have accepted full responsibility, I assume the repercussions will fall on your head alone. Sixth Platoon has been rendered combat ineffective due to losses and injuries, so they will be reassigned to garrison duty in Caspia. Our best estimates suggest the current punitive expedition against the Menites will be over within the next week or two, so it shouldn’t matter anyway.” The commander gave him one last stern look. “Dismissed.”

The enemy came again and again upon the Sword Knights lead by Sir Faraday, but he would not yield. For five days and five nights the knights stood, shoulder to shoulder, as the dark creatures continually sallied forth against them from the festering pit. The knights did not tire, nor did they ever waver, and their spirits remained high, certain in the rightness of their cause, for a knight is never troubled by the doubts and fears harbored by lesser men.

—
Records of Chivalry
by Lord Percival Rainworth 486 AR

PART III: THE DEFENDERS

T
he Malcontents had been sent back to Caspia, but the war had followed them home.

Hierarch Voyle was an unstoppable force. The Cygnarans who had seen him in action and survived spoke in hushed, fearful tones, as if shaken by his holy wrath. They said that the Protectorate hierarch possessed the strength of Menoth himself and that he was effortlessly cutting down everyone who got in his way. It was as if they had pushed too far, and Menoth himself had come to punish Cygnar for their sins. The might of what the Menites called the True Faith had finally been released, and the army of Cygnar had been pushed out of Sul, chased back across the broken wall. Now they were fighting across the streets of Caspia against a horde of Menites that never seemed to end. The punitive expedition had turned into a fight for Cygnar’s very survival.

Their greatest leader had been struck down. Lord Commander Stryker had been badly wounded while fighting against the Protectorate warcaster Feora, crushed beneath a falling temple. Barely alive, his body had been rescued by a warjack, and he was currently in the Archcourt Cathedral, under the care of the best healers in the Church of Morrow. The official word was that their Lord Commander would live, but the citizens had their doubts. These were dark times for the kingdom.

Kelvan Cleasby huddled in front of the pitiful fire to soak up whatever warmth he could. It was a bitterly cold morning and promised to be another miserable day. The leadership of the Sixth was assembled in the Barn, going over their current orders. It would be more of the same: herding refugees and guarding supplies.

Thornbury had scrounged up some tea and a pot for boiling water. He passed a tin over. “Breakfast is served.” He’d been thin when they’d first met but looked positively gaunt at this point. The war had been hard on him.

Cleasby looked at his tin. The entirety of their morning rations consisted of some hard tack and a bit of old salt pork, but at least they had food, which was more than they could say for their poor countrymen trapped in the eastern neighborhoods of Caspia. “I’m not hungry.” He pushed the tin away. “Give mine to the men.”